Desiderium
by Polska
Summary: He was the existential crisis that threatened to untangle the complicated web she weaved. semi-au. one-shot.


**Desiderium**

_He was the existential crisis that threatened to untangle the complicated web she weaved._

_

* * *

_

He was nothing and everything, painful and unsolicited, while at the same time opened nouveau realizations for her. He humbled her in the same way he swelled her ego. In this, he brought out the best and the worst in her. They were contradictions within themselves, endearing, appalling, and meant to be at the same moment they weren't.

(She could never exactly prove their love).

They'd grown apart since their initial seventh grade relationship, separating until their reunion in high school. She'd changed in the sense that she no longer relied on her friends to keep her intact. She was willing to drift away, willing to move on herself—but she could never simplify herself to the point of understanding. Each notion she created spun into place a woven thread of misconception. They were all as unaware as she was, though perhaps not quite as much.

(They could never really disprove it either).

Their relationship fluctuated precariously between caustic chaos and loving remembrance. Her friends wondered why she stayed with him, his questioned if she was worth it. Their answers were identical, and the perpetually deepening foundation was adorned with cracks and scars of misbelieved eternity.

(She would always be drawn to him).

And she would always love to hate him and hate to love him, noting that the latter always seemed to be her predominant emotion. At least it was never hollow. Their foundation was as solid as it could be, as unwavering as her confidence. Whether it was her confidence in herself, in them, or even in him, she found it did not matter. The feeling was reassuring.

(He held her together in the same sense that he could break her apart).

Though he didn't.

...

His spicy cologne enveloped her in the way that the thick, royal purple comforter on her bed at home did. She wrapped herself in its warmth and familiarity, desperate never to leave it.

"Baby," he murmured, nuzzling his nose into her neck from behind and breathing in the scent of Chanel no. 9. His hands rested on her waist, settled in comfortably against the bare of her skin beneath her flowy blouse.

These were the moments that she craved, episodes occurring indiscriminately that sent heat surging through her body. She found herself succumbing dangerously to these moments with great ease—kissing her softly in the hallway, stroking her wrist with the pad of his thumb in their science lab, brushing against the small of her back with his hand as he dropped her off at her car. Moments she craved with bated breath.

She saw the Spanish beauty roll her eyes. While they'd all been separated nearly four years ago in the midst of their freshman year, she noticed that the brunette would hover back, torn between her ego and her long-standing solidarity to her friends. It did not perturb her as much as it had done in previous years; rather she acknowledged it the same way she would a stray shirt on the floor of her bedroom. She would merely replace it back on the shelf and forget about it in the next minute.

The redhead cooed softly, desperate to please. She ran rampant with blatant insecurities; anxiously finger combing her hair, tugging on her high-waisted miniskirt, perhaps worried that her legs were too emphasized, her thighs were too fat, her hips too wide. She was the kind of her girl who clung too tightly, fearful of the future and the change it would bring.

He trailed his hands down her sides, resting them against her hips, pressing against her. He wanted her, wanted her always, wanted her now, wanted her forever. She pulled way to remind him they were at school and resistance was necessary. Sometimes he made it hard for her to breathe.

"Where is (the blonde)?" the sporty one questioned, gaze averted. She would not admire, would only hike up the crop to her off-the-shoulder blouse, would only stretch to lower the waist of her skinny jeans. Envy was paramount. Envy was precarious. Envy was destructive. She could only smirk.

"Prol'y with her boyfriend," said the Spanish beauty in a tone that suggested she did not care. She glanced down at her manicured nails, admiring the word 'jealousy' crawling across the tips.

He wanted to follow suit. She saw him bite his lower lip, and shift anxiously in his dark jeans where he stood. These were the times where she hated to love him. She despised his perpetual need for physical incident, yet craved it at the same time. She hated their incongruity. She hated knowing that someone could best her. He would not always get his way.

"I'm…going home," she muttered, avoiding eye contact with the girls and him. He was perplexed, disappointed, and angry all at once. They were bewildered, smug, and only vaguely discouraged. She hated that sometimes it was hard for her to breathe here.

He said, "I'll come with you."

She said, "no."

...

His hands were entangled in her dark hair; his lips were roaming her neck. He was an explorer. He teased her. She could not help but want him.

She'd tried to be adamant in her words, because she was known for it. They flocked to her when they were unsure, knowing that she would respond sagely, even if sometimes it were falsified. She was wiser now, exceedingly more knowledgeable than previous years, not quite as ill prepared to handle it. It was nothing but pure inevitability. She was to be their continual guide, the one who was equipped to handle whatever they threw at her. She could not complain.

He distracted her, sent her thoughts spiralling from her head. His hands had escaped her air, freely wandering down the length of her body, gently caressing her bare skin. His touch induced her into a lethargic, albeit heated, state. It was like some autonomic high; a clandestine feeling that washed through her veins with great prowess.

These were the moments that she loved him despite everything. She ached from his touch and barely stood to breathe. She could do nothing but revel in the sensation of his warm, heated palms against her naked torso and wish that this moment could be endless. Her fingers became entwined in his dirty blond locks, gripping and twisting as he loved her and took her and elicited verbose responses from her pert lips.

(When she never meant for this to happen, it did).

...

"You're such a bitch," he hissed at her, spitting insults and hatred from his snarled mouth.

"I hate you," she spat at him. Fury clouded her vision, blurring the lines between reality and misinformed odium. Rain pelted her brow, her hair began to curl, and her clothes clung to her body almost desperately. She was shivering. He was glaring at her.

"You're fucking beautiful," he growled. He took a step nearer, rage emanating from his core. She could feel it from where she stood as far away from her car than where she ever wanted to be. She cursed him for the rain, her eyes misted over from a combination of rainwater and salty tears.

"I hate you!" she screamed, forcibly shoving him away. He came at her, grabbed her face, and slammed his lips against hers, pushing her against the side of his car. She parted her lips and he drew his tongue forth, intertwining it with hers. He kissed her with such mad passion, tasting her lips and her tongue with a desperation she'd never felt before. His hands gripped at her face and he pressed himself into her, lifting her up by the backside and pushing her further onto the car.

Then, automatically it seemed, he released her, panting as deeply as she'd ever seen him. His eyes were wide, almost unfocused, and his chest heaved noticeably through his soaked white v-necked shirt. She raised a hand to her lips, wincing at their puffiness. There was only silence between them now, untested, unsure.

She hated how easily he could do this to her.

...

"Shots!" she heard the redhead crow as she slammed her petite shot glass against the matching one held by the Spanish beauty. She watched the redhead empty her glass in a mere second, grimacing at the god-awful taste of Smirnoff in her own mixer. She could never quite be the life of the party at these things. Watching the blond bimbo and a vast selection of other girls allow boys to trickle salt up the tequila streak on their naked stomachs and proceed to extract the lemon from their mouths filled her with a grotesque squirm in her stomach.

_You could be so much more. _

She watched his mouth trail up the blond bimbo's torso in near slow motion, using his tongue to flick the lemon from her lips. He would avoid her eyes, focus distantly into the other girl's otherwise intent gaze, then meet her on the dance floor and gyrate with her to the beat.

_He's so drunk._

"Mm, you taste like candy," he would say as he trailed his tongue across her neck, nibbling at her skin. She would bite her lip, and want to move away, but it was never enough to want. Instead she would allow herself to yield to his desires and would wake up in a state of self-disgust and loathing, wondering why she'd allowed herself to love him so much.

He would not drink again.

...

"You shouldn't waste your time loving me so much."

"Who would I be if I didn't?"

"Everything you ever wanted."

"You're everything I ever wanted."

He left her speechless time and time again.

...

Just don't leave me, he sometimes would plead, cursing her back into that perpetual cycle. I wouldn't dare, was her response, but only sometimes. Then she would remember her solidity, stare into his eyes, and proceed to kiss him softly, so softly, against his lips, supple against hers. He did not reciprocate, and the kiss ended, lingering in the air with cool stillness. He saw through her. She felt a drop of water against her cheek.

She glanced up, seeing naught but blue sky and a shining sun. Where was the rain? She grazed a finger across the wet streak against her lip. The teardrop shone achingly on the tip of her finger, hardly intact. Oh…she was crying.

He reached out his hand and brushed her tears away, pressing his palm against her cheek so tenderly. Her eyes fluttered. She turned her face and kissed his hand, leaning forward to continue the trend to his cheek. She kissed his jaw line, trailed kisses down his chin, down his neck, to his lips. He kissed her forehead, let his hand linger at her shoulder, and left.

...

He did not come back.

...

She thought he couldn't break her.

(He did).

* * *

**Polska – first Clique story, inspired by a myriad of trance songs on repeat. I considered making it multi-chaptered, but I feel like its run its course. Perhaps a two- or three-shot if I feel so inclined. Thanks for reading! Hope you review. :)**


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